Value
by garamonder
Summary: Sybil finds an ally in the elder Mrs Branson.


Sybil returned their skepticism with reflexive courteousness, and Maura thought it would take rather more than their remarks to unravel years of meticulously drilled manners. She did wish they would stop trying.

She'd invited her daughter-in-law out of politeness and was regretting her charitable spirit now, if only for the discomfort she felt watching these women juggle their misgivings. In aristocratic parlors this sort of back-and-forth qualified as child's play.

The only indication Sybil gave that she was not entirely at her ease among these women was the ommittance of the news she and a beaming Tom had delivered to Maura the day before: that she was expecting their first child. Maura could not well blame the girl. If they disparaged even her ability to keep a basic house, she could imagine how they'd react to hearing of her pregnancy… _"What, and no nursemaid?"_

Darcy made a comment about cooking that was probably intended to sail over Sybil's head, but the girl gave a slightly strained smile, replied politely and sipped some tea. Maura felt herself grow more desperately infuriated by the moment.

"How about the vote!" she finally said a little too loudly. On this subject Sybil was able to contribute, and the conversation was mercifully diverted.

At last it was time to go and Sybil insisted on helping Erin clear away the saucers. Maura heard them talking around the clinking of carefully handled china. On hearing that Tom Branson's "lady wife," as Breanne called her, would be attending their weekly chat, Erin had hurriedly polished all her family's heirloom china rather than use the typical daily crockery. Even so, it hardly compared to the beautiful ware Maura knew to be staples in homes like the one Sybil had been raised in.

Darcy was not used to her new, short bob and needlessly tossed her head before turning to Maura and saying, "Fancy us playing the thorns to _that_ English rose."

"Sybil does very well, and keep your voice down," said Maura.

"Does Tom 'm'lady' her still?"

"Oh, stuff it, Darcy, your girl married a _clerk_. I saw him pick up a shilling with a handkerchief."

The Burke girl had been keen on Tom, once, and Maura raised her eyebrows to make sure that Darcy Burke knew she remembered that.

In return Darcy furrowed her eyebrows to make sure Maura Branson knew she remembered how fiercely she'd initially objected to her son's marriage.

Well, that was _then_, and Sybil was family now; that was that. Even the most ridiculous notions had an occasional success rate. Besides, no one could say that she'd not thrown herself into life in Dublin, and the disappointment that the elder Mrs Branson feared to see in Sybil's eyes had never manifested.

Sybil and Erin returned. Erin's expression held a sort of deference and she smiled broadly at something Sybil was saying. If they were not scoffing Tom's lady wife, they revered her as a sort of glamorous fay come to live among them. Maura wished they could stride the middle.

"I suppose it's time we were off," she said, mentally adding _two hours ago._

They said their goodbyes, Maura in her coarse brogue and Sybil in her elegant fashion, and bundled on their coats. The two women stepped out and instinctively raised their shoulders against the damp chill. Tom once joked that an Irish winter began in the bones, and Maura felt it deeply in hers. Before long her face was surely a violent pink.

"Your friends are lovely," said Sybil dutifully, although something in her tone provided exceptions to the opinion. A Darcy-shaped exception, with an additional exclusion for Abigail, who had taken every opportunity to exaggerate her own expertise in every field in which Sybil was lacking.

Damn her breeding. "They're ornery," said Maura. "Just say it."

Sybil wouldn't; she only smiled.

"I suppose you wonder why I bother with those silly hens," grumbled Maura, "when I'm so often vexed by them myself."

Sybil brought her hand to her mouth and laughed softly. "That's not so different," she said. "English ladies are absolutely codependent upon other women they can hardly stand. All of Grandmama's nearest friends aggravate her but she could never abide tea without them."

"That must be something all women share in common, then." Maura eyed her daughter-in-law pensively. Sybil rarely mentioned her family, as though she thought that bringing them up before anyone but Tom would inspire resentment.

"You don't have to prove anything to them, you know," Maura told her. "They're just old bats, and harmless."

Sybil was quiet a moment, and then carefully said, "I don't like anyone saying I'm incapable."

That alone was enough to betray her pique; the accompanying frown served to underscore it. Maura felt suddenly sorry for her.

It was little do with her, really. Every day they watched escalating protests against English rule and read about injustices in the paper. Those women—and yes, Maura herself—grew up hearing their grandparents' horrific stories of the Famine and lingering fury over the penal laws. It was not easy to reconcile that with the sudden appearance of a pretty, privileged, and Protestant Englishwoman who thought to marry into their troubles.

"You're operating on a learning curve, my dear, and that's all," said Maura. "Might be they tease your cooking, or laugh at your proper manners, but what do those things matter? You brought wounded men into your home, you cared for them, you came to a land that ent your own and you don't care a whit what anyone says."

"So why am I annoyed?" muttered Sybil.

"Because what they say is petty. It'd annoy you no less if they said measly things about me, or Tom, or the Pope. Petty is petty."

"I thought to leave pettiness behind at Downton Abbey."

Curious words, and Maura would be interested to learn more. Over time. But for now, she only tightened her arm around her expectant daughter and mentally scolded the drizzly Irish winter. "Pettiness is a human condition, girl, it's a harder thing to scald than fleas."

"That's reassuring," said Sybil, but she smiled like it really was. As though to return the favor, she quickly added, "Everyone here has been lovely, though."

"Don't say 'lovely', it sounds insincere," Maura advised her.

"You sound like your son."

"I was here first. He sounds like me."

Sybil laughed, and Maura was pleased to see her gloved hand didn't move fast enough to cover her mouth. How Tom must love the laughs she didn't hide.

"Are you truly happy here, my dear?" Maura asked her seriously.

Sybil did not immediately answer, but thought about her words, which lent them more honesty than if she'd answered straight away. "I truly am," she said, and Maura believed her.

She went on: "I know what people at home think, even if I don't care. That I'm playing house, like a child. But what do children have? Nothing. Nothing that's truly theirs. Downton Abbey belongs to posterity, I only ever rented my time there. The paintings and furniture were never mine. It's not juvenile to want something that's all your own."

Maura gazed at her. "No, I'd say that's the very opposite of immature."

"My home is mine, even if I rent it. My furnishings are mine. My clothes." And she looked at Maura with bold blue eyes. "Tom is mine. And so is the baby."

How could someone have had everything, and nothing they'd wanted? It was an astonishing thought to Maura. Sybil saw value in the life she'd chosen. She saw value in a life like Maura's.

"Well." It would not do to seem emotional. "Don't let those biddies get one up on you. Next time they get smart about your cooking, ask them how _they'd_ set a broken leg."

Sybil grinned. "Or assist in surgery."

"Or suture a wound."

"Change dressings on a hideous burn."

"We're getting progressively more disgusting."

Sybil slipped her arm through Maura's. "Thank you."

..

The end :) This is a sort of companion piece to "Candor," where Tom and Cora have a word. I like the idea of Tom's mother being gruffly funny.


End file.
